


The Walls

by orphan_account



Series: The Walls [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Insane Sherlock, Psychiatric Hospital AU, Psychiatrist John, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are voices that only Sherlock can hear. They’re coming from walls, they’re driving him insane. His new psychiatrist, John Watson, doesn’t believe a word until these ghosts start whispering in his house. Now, with the reveal that Sherlock isn't human, John has to find out what he is... before his supposedly dead brother, Mycroft, does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Face

**Author's Note:**

> YAY, NEW STORY! This one is going to be Horror-Sci-Fi. So don't expect all lovey dovey, "Oh John!" "Oh Sherlock!" This is Sherlock being (basically) a madman, more so than before, and John trying to help him. I put the warning for Graphic Descriptions of Violence because, later on, we see what really caused Sherlocks fall into "insanity." Like I said before, DO NOT EXPECT SWEET LOVEY DOVEY.

The sounds of screaming echoed around the halls; scratching fired off, as if long, dangerous guns that were winning a war; whispers of terror and pain ripped through the hall, making the world of living feel in the world of the dead.

St. Bart's Psychiatric Hospital held many different people, many different ages, and all genders. It was hard to not place these sad, mentally unstable people under different groups: Personality disorders, the worst of all holding to James/Jim Moriarty. James was insane, and Jim was sweet. It was hard to tell which was which sometimes, because James could act very well; chronic depression; schizophrenia; mood disorders (bi-polar among them); mania/hypomania; and a slew of others that was hard to place. Some were in a catatonic state (where they were awake, but were basically comatose); some came in willingly; some where brought in by family; others were ordered in, out of fear for others; and yet others were admitted in from no apparent person. There was only one in the later category.

Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was a brilliant man with a troubled mind. Dark, almost black, taupe hair made his light blue eyes and pale skin seem to glow. His hair was in a state of unruly curls, displaying his madness. He stood at six-foot, and was lanky. Not the runner or athlete lanky, but almost a stick figure lanky.  He was constantly looking tired or sick, due to him being the worst off in insanity. Sure, he would help the police, be able to go to crime scenes, an solve a case in a few hours, but he would often bark at walls, telling them to be quiet. Or curl into a ball and start screaming for them to shut up. Many people felt sorry for him, even Jim, when he was Jim. Each person who tried to work with him gave up after a few tries, due to him claiming that he wasn't mad. That he was sane, or as sane as anyone could be.

But now, a new face was coming 'round.

John Watson had strange blonde orange hair that, once Sherlock would see him, he would call his hair goldenrod in color, and his eyes an "expressant Oxford blue." John stood proudly, having come from one of the best Psychiatric Colleges anywhere. He had been a soldier, brought back after being shot in the shoulder and a partly psychosomatic limp (which he quickly got over), he had refreshed up on psychiatric medicine and the like, and was now going to be a therapist to some random patient. He grinned, his glasses pressing against his chest as it swelled with pride. He opened up the door and walked inside.

The girl at the desk beamed at him. "Dr. Watson! Are you ready for your first day?"

John laughed. "Just got here, and I'm already put to work?"

The girl grinned. "Yep. I'll take your stuff up to your room if you want to follow Dr. Stamford down the hall to your first therapy session."

John nodded, looking at the man now waiting for him in the doorway. "Stamford!" he cried, walking up and clapping the larger man on the shoulder. Mike grinned wildly, doing the same to John. "Watson. Good to see you. Come on, I want you to get started right away."

"I noticed," John retorted playfully.

They walked down the pale hallways of the asylum, some of the patients that were allowed to walk around blinked at him. Some asked him where they were, and Mike replied for him. They spent a few moments walking before they came to a stop in front of a room. "Your patient is in there, John."

"Thanks, Mike." John blinked when Mike handed him a small file that said, in large, bold letters, "HOLMES, SHERLOCK SCOTT WILLIAM". "This is my patient?"

"Yep. He's usually calm and contained, but if he starts screaming, don't be afraid to call in," Mike offered, smiling warmly, giving John another clap on the shoulder before walking off.

John took a deep breath to steel himself before opening the door.

Sherlock was reclined on the couch, his eyes glazed and far away. "Mr. Holmes?" John asked, the skinny man jolting at the sound of his voice. Sherlock peered at him.

"Doctor," he greeted in a sort of moan, clear that his voice was either used to excess or used very little, but from Mike's words, he guessed the former.

John sat down on the chair that was given. "So, looking through your file, you are-..."

"Age and such small matters don't need to be considered, Doctor, just how long before I can get out of this damn place," Sherlock snapped, sitting up. His pale eyes seemed to glow with divine power. John swallowed, nodding. "Right. So, then, mind explaining what it's like in your head?"

Sherlock gave an exaggerated snort before pressing his forearm to his forehead and flopping back onto the couch. "It's not in my head, but you won't believe that... it depends on their mood."

"Their?" John repeated, making mental notes of the encounter.

"Yes, their." Came the sharp reply. "Sometimes, their nice and quiet. I can think in somewhat peace, have a 'good' day. Other times, they're screaming at the top of their lungs, going to war, it feels like. It... scares me, when they scream," he admitted the last part in almost a whisper.

John blinked, moving on, pushing his glasses (which he hadn't realized he had placed on his face until now) higher up on his nose. "Have you told anyone else this?"

"No. But I feel I can trust you."

"Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "The Voices around you don't scream."

John's head snapped up. " _Around_ me?" He repeated, searching the other man's face for any sign of faking.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, _around_ you. Everyone has at least one."

John blinked again. "What do mine sound like?" Strange question, but might as well go along with it.

"It's a Sargent you lost on the battle-field. Bullet wound to the chest. That's where you got your own scar, the one on your shoulder."

An involuntary roll assured John that it was still there.

"He doesn't blame you, none of the voices around you do. There are Generals, Privates, other Captins... they hold you in high regards, Dr. Watson." Sherlock rolled up, his eyes locking with John's.

John swallowed. "How do you-...?"

"They told me. Wasn't that obvious?"

"The Voices?"

"Yes." Sherlock looked at the wall suddenly, almost angered. "SHUT UP!" He roared. It took a few moments of a death glare and some growling before he returned to semi-normal. "Sorry about that, Doctor. They were just acting up. Like children."

John was slightly shaken. That was so sudden, and so clear, that John was wondering why this man wasn't in a padded room with a straight jacket on.

"Doctor?" Sherlock's eyes were huge, worried, and, strangely enough, scared. He was gripping the couch, either like his life depended on it, or he was keeping himself from walking over.

"Nothing you just..."

"Startled you? Yes, usually they're quieter during a first meet... they must find you interesting." Sherlock suddenly let it go, pressed his chin in his hands, and stared at John. "Strange..."

"What?"

"I can't... I don't... You don't seem to have a Guardian."

"A what?"

"A Guardian," Sherlock repeated. "Like me. Guardians are basically like Guardian Angels, but they have a huge importence in your life. And by, like me, I meant that I fail to have one as well."

"So an angel?"

"No, you stu-... no... not an angel," Sherlock replied, looked down and away. "See, I don't have any Voices following me. They are always around someone else, or come from the walls."

"They come from... the walls?" John was very confused. Sherlock didn't seem insane. In fact, he just seemed like he was actually annoyed by them, not in any real danger.

"Yes. Those ones are of people who either haven't been able to make it past the Middle, between going to Heaven or whatever, or being alive, or were connected to someone that died early," he explained, laying back down.

"So... they aren't really harming you?" John pried.

"Not usually... it's gotten worse, though," Sherlock answered, looking up at the ceiling. "Not good... not good at all..." he muttered suddenly, standing up and pacing.

"What's not good?" John watched Sherlock pace, worried for him.

Sherlock blinked suddenly and collapsed, catching himself on all fours. John scrambled forward and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "Sherlock? Sherlock, speak to me!"

"Not right... not... right... not... good..." The words were becoming more and more stressed. Suddenly, Sherlock's hands flew up to his ears and he screamed at the top of his lungs, as if he had just seen a very brutal murder. "STOP IT! HE'S DEAD!"

"Sherlock!"

The cries of Sherlock arguing with the demons inside his head and John trying to wake his patient lasted for about half an hour before Sherlock stopped and started panting, worn out.

"What was that?" John ordered.

"They lie..." Sherlock hissed, clawing at the air.

"They lie about what, Sherlock?"

"My brother's dead..." Sherlock growled, now looking feral. He peeling his lips back from his teeth and snarled, something that should've only come out of a cat or dog, before actually crawling off into a corner, looking like a pissed cat.

John sighed, staring to walk over, but Sherlock clawed at him. Giving up on walking to him. John sat down and waited. Another hour passed before Sherlock blinked and his eyes cleared.

"Why am I in a corner?" he asked no one, looking at John. "You're... You're John Watson, right?"

John nodded.

"Your Voices seem confused. As do you. Why? Did I attempt to run through the wall again?" There was a dark humor in Sherlock's words and the small smile.

"No... you just acted like a cat," John replied, getting up.

Sherlock looked around. "Oh... that would explain things." He stood and dusted himself off. "Sorry, Doctor. That... happens when I'm really scared. I kind of black out."

"Clearly."

"Again, sorry. Should I just head back to my room, or...?"

"Not without me escorting you," John snapped. He took his glasses off and refolded them before following Sherlock.

It took the twenty minutes to get the stairs, and another twenty to get to the floor they needed. It was on the fourth floor, which was called the Baker Floor. Sherlock stopped in front of door number 221. "Thank you," he spoke suddenly, looking at John.

"It was nothing." The reply was short and almost curt as John watched Sherlock walk into his room and close the door. He rolled his eyes. Sherlock must've heard that he was coming. Not ghosts or whatever he called them. Voices, wasn't it? John started to walk away, starting to snort and giggle with laughter. Yeah, right. Ghosts. He managed to get to the landing for Baker Floor before he burst out laughing. "Oh, God..." he managed, laughing so hard, he could barely breath. He actually started crying at one point. He'd stay with Sherlock. Not that be believed the poor soul. John reread the file. "So drugs don't work, eh?" He closed it again, still grinning. "Well, doesn't mean I still can't help the poor chap." With his mind set and his determination pouring off of him, he set off down the stairs. He didn't notice the quiet mumblings of anger from Sherlock as the dark haired man stumbled back to his room, his heart aching and his eyes threatening to spill over with tears.


	2. Old Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's decided to give some old fashioned asylum tactics a try. Mike's, of course, against this, but Sherlock's going to get better, well... sometimes, you have to just trust the ways that have a little bit more danger in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, this is going to take forever to finish! I'm so sorry! I just... I have ideas for fifty other things, but I wanna finish this! So yes, let's continue, shall we?

Sherlock's rambling had gotten worse over the past few days, even to the point where he would be yelling at five different things in front of John. Before he'd started muttering about lying voices and stupid monsters in his head, and life, he at least acknowlaged that John was there. Now, he didn't even notice him, unless John touched him. And it was annoying.

"You're... you're joking, right?" Mike swallowed when John had just told him his idea. "About what?" John's eyebrow raised, his arms crossed as he leaned back. His glasses had been destroyed by one of Sherlock's outbursts... which was more reflex to John alerting Sherlock that he was there, but everyone had said it was Sherlock's fault. John never blamed that on Sherlock. And he never would.

"About..." Mike swallowed again, his eyes dodging around. "About using those... horrors of the past?"

"Yes, I plan to use those," John replied sharply. Mike flinched quite clearly. "What? Are you afraid for his already lost mental health? They may be the only way we can get him back!"

"By torture?! Patients went even more insane because of them!"

"THEN WE HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE!" The words echoed out and around the building. Mike stared at him, the fear that had made him keep away from therapy showing. "Mike..." John swallowed and brought in a breath, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "What good will it do Sherlock to keep him yelling and crying out? Nothing. Look at Moriarty-..." Mike flinched again. John knew the story. All the staff did, and Sherlock knew as well. Mike had tried, and failed, at helping the uncurable case. Mike had been sure he could help. He was the reason that the poor man now could barely talk to someone without changing personalities in seconds. "Look at Moriarty," John hissed. "Sherlock's gonna end up just like that, but instead, he's going to be worse. He won't notice anyone's there, he'll  _starve_ himself." John started to the door, having been standing already.

"John, you can't... you can't do that, I mean..."

John turned, his eyes darker than before. "Watch me."

The night had already fallen on them by the time he had left the asylum. He could see the small village that he called home. He had to move a while to get to it, but, who cared? He was safe. He felt his chest ache lightly at the cold air. It burned his lungs, kept him awake. He could already smell the baked bread from the baker, and the... Oh, God, he could smell the sweet candy that was being crafted only two doors down from his home.

He swung open the door into his two story house. It groaned as it slowly opened, letting the doctor into his dark, somewhat dusty home. Boxes still stood in towers before him, a sort of reminder that he had just returned from the military, and that he was far away from home. He sighed heavily before dragging his feet up the stairs. It took a while to do so, mostly because he could hear the soft whispers of wind outside. As soon as he was in his bedroom, his bag was dropped with no grace to the floor, and his body soon plopping onto the bed.

"Good God, I may never see my home again..." he moaned as he rolled onto his back. He peeked up. There wasn't a speck of a cloud. Like he cared. As he looked at the star-speckled sky, he thought about just how wonderful it'd be to have someone sitting there, beside you, without the window, just out there, on a sheet... He closed his eyes and ignored the feeling. "No... I can't. Sherlock's more important right now."

_~Is he?~_

John jolted up, the whisper of clear words alerting him to someone in the house. It sounded like a young girl. "Who's there?"

_~No-one...~_

That was the last he heard all night, and into the next day. He had arrived at the asylum, hearing the current screams of a patient. John groaned. His shoulder was aching, a warning of the storms that were coming. He walked up into the room Sherlock normally stayed in, but he was greeted with other patients. They blinked at him, confused. "Oh, sorry... Wasn't expecting... Where's...?"

"John!"

He had barely turned his head before he spotted Molly running at him full speed. She slid to a stop, panting. "Sorry, should've told you sooner. Sherlock's been moved into his own, small house. Not connected to Bart's, but right next door." Again, John apologized before following Molly.

Sure enough, Sherlock was sitting there, snapping and snarling at the Voices. "Sherlock?" For once, the patient looked at him, surprised. "I... I didn't hear you come in," he rumbled, standing up to his full height. "Oh shit..." John muttered under his breath as Sherlock stalked over. He spotted the adult crib just beside him. It was open (thank God) and the key was resting beside it. Right as Sherlock's hands reached out to clamp around John's throat, he found himself with his hands behind his back, being wrestled over to the crib. "WHAT IS THIS?!" Sherlock roared.

"Your treatment!"

Sherlock screamed at John threats before he tripped over the side and fell into the crib. He flipped over to see the top down and John locking it. "Now..." The therapist panted. "You are going to sit there."

"LET ME OUT!" This was repeated long after Sherlock started sobbing. He finally stopped when his vocals cracked and threatened to make him mute for a day. John had been sitting there, reading a book that he'd brought along. "You done?"

Sherlock looked over. His eyes were huge. "I... I... You... I..."

"Spit it out, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face went bright red. "I HATE YOU! LET ME OUT! THEY'RE..." He started crying again. "They're so loud... M-make them st-stop..."

John walked over and held his hand a little out of reach. "I can't help you unless you tell me every thing that's happening. Sherlock," he paused, letting the poor man focus on him, "I want to help you, but you need to want help. Otherwise, I can't stop the Voices." John sat back, waiting. Sherlock continued to cry for a few more moments before answering. "I... I need..." He swallowed, his eyes closing and squinting to leak out more tears. "I want help." It was barely a whisper, but John knew. He understood.

 

 

~~~~

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Where are you?" John sighed in semi-defeat, pinching the bridge of his nose and massaging it. "Stupid, fuckin'..."

"I'm right here," Sherlock growled, jerking John out of his own brain. Sure enough, the lazy man was laying across his seat, his eyes focused, though the glaze that still rested in them told John that he had been day dreaming. "I've been in every single office now, and you have the most area..."

"What?"

"Look at these bricks here." Sherlock pointed at the window. "They're higher than everyone else. Just slightly so. As if to say, there's something here, you idiots." He turned his head and glared. "Are you so blind and stupid that you could ignore-..."

"Sherlock, please," John interupted. "You know you shouldn't be even close to these offices without permission."

Sherlock grinned. "Please. I know I'm allowed in yours whenever I damn well please." He sat up, a smile on his face. No, a smug smirk. John felt himself boil. Even past lovers, the mainly female and one, stray male when both were so sexually frustraited that they said fuck all and John had one of the best orgasms of his life, hadn't gotten under his skin like Sherlock had. Hell, even past co-workers and employers hadn't.

"Listen, Sherlock, it was most likely an error on the builder's part. Nothing to do with something strange." John sighed heavily as he plopped down on the wrong side of his desk.

Sherlock shrugged before joining John.

It had been, what, a month?, since Sherlock had been moved into his own small house, if you could call it that. One room with the crib acting as his bed (John kept the key), a wardrobe that John also had the key too, that held straight jackets and other joyous things. Sherlock, in fact, never really fought... unless he was so far into his delusions that he didn't realize it was John. These were coming less and less. Thank God. Mike had even brought up the idea of John taking the patient as a roommate. John wasn't too adverse to the idea, just that he was allowed to take some medication and stuff with him. Sherlock had been over the moon at the thought.

Sherlock followed John back to his... cabin? Whatever it was. As soon as the door closed, Sherlock was giggling like mad. More than usual. John sighed and looked at him. "What, Sherlock?"

"I just... can't believe... they missed me!" he managed through his laughter. The psycho was doubled over, barely able to breath, tears dripping down his face. "Enough. I know none of us are as smart as you, but this is beyond insane."

Sherlock stiffled his laughter into more giggles. "I'm sorry, John. But the fact that the guards are unable to hear a patient, who is clearly not trying to hide, get into not the only the asylum, but also into an office of one of their most important staff? I think I have the right to say, you have sod awful guards."

"Yes, yes, now, go to bed. It's late."

Sherlock peered out the window. "It's just started to set..." he started, but John left as soon as Sherlock had begun. The curly-headed man grunted before going into his crib, letting the top down over him, and falling asleep.

John continued down the path to the village. He could smell the sweetness of the candies now.

Of course, he was sidetracked by the best caramel he'd ever eaten, but once he got home, he was bone tired. He laid his head down, about to go into a deep slumber, when a voice, clear as day, hissed at him, _~Hello, John. Are you finally a believer?~_

John jolted up in his bed, looking around wildly. Nothing. "Okay, this isn't funny now!" He warned.

 _~No... Death is never funny!~_ The voice cackled. John felt long, cold fingers wrap around his throat and start to squeeze. "Stop..." he gagged, trying to claw at an unseen enemy. The voice cackled again before dropping him, disappearing into the darkness whence it came. John sat there for many moments, letting his heart stop beating so fast. A single, terrorfying thought came over his mind.

_What if Sherlock wasn't insane?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I made mistakes, so if you know how to spell words I misspelled or saw something I missed, please comment it and the right way to spell it! Thanks!
> 
>  
> 
> Also, the next chapter won't take so long to come to me... hopefully...

**Author's Note:**

> Still with me? Yes? No? If you are, hope you're enjoying it! If not, sorry for freaking you out.


End file.
